


Young Philippe

by Vera_dAuriac



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Brothers, Coming of Age, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Musketeers, Pre-Series, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-09-30 04:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10154174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: An afternoon in the life of 18-year-old Philippe, younger brother of King Louis XIV.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, some may believe I should have tagged this Underage. I did not, for several reasons. One, this is pretty tame stuff that I show and mention in passing. Also in 1658, 17 and 18 year-old males were considered adults. For instance, Jules, only 17 at the time, is already Captain of the Musketeers. Therefore, I did not think tagging his sexual relationship with 18-year-old Philippe necessary.
> 
> At the end of Chapter 3, I'll have a big historical note. Keep and eye out for it. 
> 
> I don't own these folks--history does.
> 
> Also, my hubby is the best research assistance a girl could ask for.

**By Vera d'Auriac**

 

“Phillipe.”

“Yes, Philippe?”

A sigh.

“Don’t start that.”

“Start what?”

“Give me that back. I need to leave soon.”

“But I rather like it. Don’t you think it looks good on me? You should let me keep it.”

“If you want a pauldron, join the Musketeers and get your own.”

Philippe, that is the Duke of Anjou and brother of King Louis XIV, adjusted the pauldron with the _fleur de lis_ on his naked shoulder. He did think he looked quite well in it and nothing else, and judging by the half-hearted efforts his lover was making to recover it, Philippe guessed he was not alone in his opinion.

His lover.

 _My lover_. _I know it’s only been a month, but I will never tire of calling him my lover_. Philippe, that is the Duke of Nevers and nephew to Cardinal Mazarin, better known as Jules to his friends, wetted his lips. Yes, Jules found his lover appealing, lying naked on the narrow bed with the summer sunlight coming through the narrow window of their garret. Philippe could read the hungry look in his eyes as he stared down at Philippe’s sweaty body, hungry even though they had both already spent twice this afternoon.

Jules then sat on the edge of the bed he had paid for so they would have somewhere private to meet. Unlike Philippe, he was fully dressed in his beautiful uniform. But he hadn’t put his gloves on yet, and he ran the tips of his fingers across Philippe’s chest, around his nipples, and up his throat. “I’m sorry I have to go. You should come with me. I know you want to.”

“But do you really think it will work?” Philippe asked, not daring to hope. “Can the king’s brother become a Musketeer? Am I even fit for the job? Yes, I ride and fence and shoot a little, but look!” He wiggled the pauldron around his slim shoulder. “I’m hardly a real soldier.”

“And I am the model warrior?” laughed Jules, who was not much bigger than Philippe. “Who is going to tell you no? I promise to enlist my uncle’s help if necessary. How do you think I became captain of the regiment after all?”

Philippe smiled faintly, but his heart wasn’t in it. Yes, Jules’s uncle could make anything happen that he wished. Cardinal Mazarin was also the First Minister, and had guided Philippe and Louis’s mother through her regency. Even now that Louis ruled in his own right, the Cardinal was still arguably the most powerful man in France, the Queen Mother ever at his side. Philippe’s mother always consulted Louis and offered him advice, never trying to cling too tightly to power the way her mother-in-law, Marie de Medici, had tried with Philippe’s father. But she and Mazarin still held sway. _And mother will not like this, no matter how much it would mean to me_.

“Come with me, darling,” Jules said, finally removing the pauldron from Philippe’s shoulder. “I know how much you want this, and I can make any man I want to a Musketeer.”

“But you aren’t even really the captain. You’re just the pretty thing on the front of the ship. What is that called? I know even less about the navy than the army. Why did I never spend any time studying these things?”

“The word you’re looking for is figurehead,” huffed Jules. Philippe took his hand and kissed it, which brought back Jules’s smile. “And it’s fine that you didn’t study this before now. I promise to continue your education in every respect. I have military books in addition to those dirty ones.”

They kissed, slowly with their tongues passing through panting lips. Jules had already taught him a great deal. Philippe had been so nervous when Jules had first approached him. For the past few years, Philippe had tried flirting with girls, even kissed and groped a few, but nothing had felt right, and he, frankly, couldn’t understand what Louis was constantly getting so excited about where the fairer sex was concerned. But somehow, when Jules had touched him, had pushed him up against a wall behind a potted plant in the music room in the Louvre and kissed him, that had felt perfect to Philippe. Since then, Jules had shown Philippe just how much more there was to be done between two men in love.

“Yes,” Philippe said as he broke off the kiss. “You are just a mascot. But you are the prettiest mascot in Europe.”

“I accept what I am sure you meant as an apology. Now, get dressed and come with me to the garrison. If you don’t believe I am in charge and can make you a Musketeer, I’m sure d’Artagnan will be there. He runs the show and can do anything he likes.”

Philippe picked lazily at the sheet beside him, debating if he was still too warm to drape it over his lap. This was all such silly talk. He would never become a soldier, let alone a Musketeer. A skinny boy of 18 with no martial skills hardly belonged in the most famous regiment in France. “Forget it.”

“Fine. No more talk of making you a Musketeer, but I will not leave you here to sulk. Come with me to the garrison if only to look at the Musketeers in their uniforms. They wear their breeches tighter than is standard at court, and they have the backsides to make that worthwhile.”

Philippe didn’t want to grin. No. Not at all. What he wanted was to lay here and feeling sorry for himself all through the hot afternoon. _But handsome men in uniform? That is tempting_. “Do you really think d’Artagnan will be there?”

Jules chuckled. “Probably. I may only be a figurehead, but if d’Artagnan had been sent on some mission out of Paris, I would surely have been told.” He stood and took the watch from his pocket. “So, if you want to go, you had better get dressed immediately. I don’t want to be late.” He glanced down at his watch and grimaced. “Well, later than I already am. Hurry darling!”

Philippe shoved the sheet aside and dressed as swiftly as he could.

***

Philippe had never been to the Musketeers’ garrison before, but Jules had told him a great deal about it, enflaming Philippe’s imagination. It did not match the picture he had drawn in his head. Instead, it was basic and neat, all wood and dirt and noise. But most importantly, it overflowed with men either in uniform or various states of undress to make their work and training easier. As a lover of fashion, he typically enjoyed seeing beautiful people impeccably dressed in the finest clothes with placid features and perfectly coiffed hair. But thanks to Jules, Philippe had a growing appreciation for soldiers both exquisitely turned out and _en déshabillé_. Philippe and Jules weaved around Musketeers chatting, cleaning weapons, pouring over maps, until they reached a group of men stripped to breeches with shirts open at their throats. They sparred in pairs with swords and at their head stood a handsome man in his forties, dark and tall, sweat beading on his throat and matting black chest hair. He peered at the fencers, seemingly taking in everything each of the half dozen parings did. He squinted slightly, and his lips moved gently as if always poised to deliver and order. Everything about him spoke of expertise and surety.

“You must move your feet, Regis. If you do not need them, Marcel looks as though he would be happy to cut them off.” Thus spoke the paragon, and Philippe sighed.

Jules, of course, laughed at him and grabbed his elbow to pull him around the fighters. But all the while, Philippe stared at the powerful man controlling everything and everyone.

“Xavier, _main gauche_ up. Otherwise, Yves will poke your eye out with my blessing. You must think, men! Use your head or your will lose it. Worse yet, the brother at your side may lose his. Do any of you want that?”

“No, sir,” the men said in enthusiastic unison.

“He’s not usually such a tyrant,” Jules whispered. “I think he’s trying to impress you.”

 _I cannot possibly have heard him correctly_. “If he’s even made out who I am, why would he want to impress me?”

Jules merely shook his head. “Everyone in France knows you, darling. And you’re the Duke of Anjou, brother to the king. Of course he wants to impress you.”

Before Philippe could respond to this, and since he did not know what he would say, he was happy to have the matter taken from his hands, the remarkable man running the training turned and took swift strides toward them. “Captain,” he nodded to Jules. “I’ve begun afternoon exercises already. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Heavens, no!” Jules laughed. “I’m well aware nothing would get done around here if you waited for me. Now, some introductions.” Jules smiled the broad, charming smile that always made Philippe a little giddy. “Your highness, may I present the Comte d’Artagnan, lieutenant of the Musketeers, and the man I could not manage without.”

D’Artagnan, the famous Musketeer swordsman and leader of men, bowed to Philippe.

“And comte, I am pleased to introduce you to his highness, Philippe, Duke of Anjou.”

D’Artagnan’s bow deepened, and Philippe nodded awkwardly, hoping this remarkable warrior would stop showing such deference. “Your highness, it’s an honor,” d’Artagnan said, straightening his tall frame to peer slightly down at Philippe.

“The honor is mine,” Philippe said, trying to make his voice even and not cracking like the adolescent he’d so recently been. “Your service to France is legendary.”

“It has always been my pleasure to serve France, especially once again as a Musketeer.”

Re-forming the Musketeer regiment after their disbandment twelve years earlier had been one of Louis’s most popular decisions. Allowing Cardinal Mazarin to name his seventeen-year-old nephew captain of the regiment had been less well received. But no one dared argue with the Cardinal, and what anger had boiled was soothed when one of the country’s most beloved soldiers backed the choice and rejoined the regiment, clearly to command in all but name. _I don't blame them. I would follow this man anywhere_.

“Is there anything your highness would like to see? Any questions I might be able to answer?” d’Artagnan asked.

Philippe could think of at least a million questions he would like to ask, but they all stuck in his throat, even the one he most desired to speak—his request to join the regiment. Naturally, Jules, who was always more comfortable with people than Philippe (who so often relied upon chilly aloofness to see him through uncomfortable situations), spoke for him. “Why, his highness would like to be a Musketeer! What do you think of that? Does the regiment have room for another enthusiastic young man?”

D’Artagnan tilted his head slightly as he openly studied Philippe’s reaction. Philippe’s eyes dropped under that gaze, but he feared that he now looked like a coward, so he raised his face to this national treasure and tried to appear calm in spite of the thudding of his heart. “The Musketeers are always looking for enthusiastic young men. Particularly intelligent ones with talent, which I am sure describes you quite well, your highness. But I must ask, have you discussed this with his majesty, and dare I say, with your mother? Normally, the Musketeers couldn’t give two sods for what an eager recruit’s family thinks, but you don’t come from a normal family.”

Philippe’s cheeks burned. Never in his life had he felt so humiliated! A man he admired more than anyone had just told him to quit bothering him and go home and see his mother! _Why does the ground not open under my feet and swallow me? I can no longer be in this man’s presence. A moment ago, I wished to follow him, now I wish never to see him again and to pray he never so much as recalls my name_. “No, sir,” he whispered. “But you are right. I should never have presumed to make such a request of you. I will be leaving now. It was very nice to meet you.”

With a swift nod of the head, Philippe spun around on his heel and made directly for the gate, paying no heed to sparring matches he interrupted and walked between. He thought he heard Jules say something behind him, but he continued to walk, making eye contact with no one and wishing he could just die. When he reached the gate a few moments later, he had no intention of stopping or even hesitating before he left the garrison, but someone grabbed his arm and yanked him to a stop.

“Darling,” Jules whispered, his big brown eyes full of pity Philippe did not want. “Don’t give up hope. D’Artagnan is right. We should have known we would have to discuss this at least with your brother first. How is he by the way?”

“Still sick and in bed,” Philippe answered. “I should never have left the palace today. He might need me. I must return there at once.” Without giving Jules an opportunity to respond, Philippe pulled his arm free and headed back to the Louvre at a trot.


	2. Chapter 2

During his walk back to the palace, Philippe contemplated what he might do next. He still longed to be a Musketeer, but something in his bones told him his mother would refuse his request. And yet, unlike many of the friends he had made in his life, Jules seemed to meet with mother’s approval, and he hoped that would help sway her, and if it did not, then she would at least not try to separate them. Philippe found that he longed to see Jules more every day; it was part of what made becoming a Musketeer so attractive. He spent hours alone when he and Jules could not be together daydreaming of going on missions, just he and Jules, sleeping on bedrolls under the stars next to a fire. Of course, they always slept naked after making love until they had to call a stop to it so they were sure they could ride the next day. His dreams were lovely, and he was certain the reality would be even more sublime.

If he could become a Musketeer. Perhaps rather than trying to convince mother, he should go directly to Louis? Yes, the Cardinal still made most of the decisions, and he was inclined to defer to mother more than Louis on the occasions when he deferred, but if Louis really wanted something for Philippe, they couldn’t refuse him, could they? And the Cardinal would want Philippe to join the regiment once Jules made his pleas on Philippe’s behalf, surely.

 _Yes, I will begin with Louis_ , he thought, striding through the front entrance of the Louvre. But when he turned down a hallway, Philippe finally noticed how subdued everyone, guards and courtiers, were. Well, not subdued—everyone struck him as too on edge for that to be the proper term. Perhaps, just quiet. Philippe nearly broke into a run, as he needed immediately to see his brother and make certain he was well.

But when Philippe reached Louis’s door, the guards crossed their lances to forbid him passage.

“What are you doing?” Philippe snapped. “I wish to see my brother.”

“Apologies, your highness,” said the older of the guards. “But you are not permitted entry to his majesty’s chambers.”

“ _I_ am not permitted? His own brother?” Philippe seethed. “Well, if I am not, then who is?”

“His physicians, sir. And select ministers.”

Philippe had to fight down the scream welling in his throat. _How dare they keep me from my brother!_ He looked at the older guard who had been doing all of the talking, and Philippe wanted to rip his face off. Then he stared at the younger guard, Bernard. Philippe had actually chatted with the man a few times and slipped him a bottle of Bordeaux on a cold night last winter. If Philippe could get Bernard on his own, he was certain he could get in to see his brother. Still, the very fact he had to scheme in this manner was outrageous.

“'Select ministers,’” Philippe said, barely controlling his voice. “But not his own brother, a prince of France, the Duke of Anjou. No, I am not to be allowed in to see my own brother, who might need me and who I wish to help.” He surely hadn’t meant to, but by the close of this little speech, he was close to yelling and hoarse. He didn’t even try to moderate his volume when he said, “And who ordered the king’s own brother away?”

“I did.”

Philippe need not turn to know his mother had just come through the door from her parlor. After he took a deep breath, he wheeled around, ready to explain to her in vivid terms what he thought of her order, but he never got the chance to open his mouth. As always, she crushed him before he could get anywhere.

“Come in and sit with me,” she said calmly, but with the force of a command. “We need to have a talk.”

“Yes, we do,” he snapped, stomping across the marble floor, heels clicking, as he pushed right by her, ruffling her skirts, to enter her parlor. He heard her sigh as he did so, but he could not care if he had upset her. _Who is she to be upset? I’m the one being kept from my own brother!_

He stalked over to the window while she closed the door. She had left some needlework sitting on her favorite sofa—a cold, hard, understuffed monstrosity with no color or comfort, just like her. He’d be damned if he would sit on it next to her, but of course, she sat at one end, moved her work, and patted the cushion beside her. “Come, sit with me. We need to talk about your brother.”

Philippe took a spot in a horrid armchair next to the sofa, winning a small battle. “How is he?”

“Extremely unwell.”  
  
“Then I demand to see him.”

“Out of the question.”

Philippe leaned forward and looked his mother directly in the eye. “He is my brother.”

“That is immaterial. He is the king, and you are his heir, and he is ill.”

“How can you talk of his ‘heir’ that coldly?” Philippe asked, feeling nothing but disgust for this unfeeling woman. If Louis were truly that unwell, Philippe didn’t care what the doctors said about miasmas. They did not succumb to them, so why should he, he who could take care of Louis better than they ever could?

“I can speak thus, because I have witnessed the transfer of power from one king to the next more than once, and I know what awaits you should anything happen to your brother.”

“But nothing will happen to him.”

She sighed, and for the first time in his life, her face softened when she turned her countenance upon him. When she reached out for his hand, he offered his own without knowing what he did, his shock was so complete. “Louis is gravely ill. The physicians bicker over what, precisely, different symptoms portend, but there is no doubt they all believe him to be in mortal danger from this fever. You and I must speak of hard things. Please tell me you are ready.”

Philippe could not continue to look at his mother’s placid face as she calmly spoke these words. He supposed her stoicism was meant to reassure him, but it had always made him feel worse. And he couldn’t imagine feeling worse than he did now. “Can they do nothing?”

“They are doing what they can, when they manage to come to an agreement. I keep wondering if I ought to just pick one and send the rest home. Even if I didn’t choose the best, at least _something_ consistent would be done.”

The sudden shift in her tone from stoic to vehement drew his attention fully back. He found her staring out of the window, her jaw slightly quivering. Through an impulse he could not name, he squeezed her hand. “He is young and strong, mother. He will surely recover from this fever.”

She snatched her hand away with a frown, a storm building on her brow. “Why do you refuse to listen? There is a good chance he will not. Your brother may die at any minute and he has no heir but you. Philippe, by this time tomorrow, you may be King of France.”

Philippe shrank back in his chair, shaking his head. “No,” he whispered. “He will recover.”

He couldn’t recall the exact moment he had understood his position—he had always had a vague notion—but the fact he was next in line for the throne was something he never took seriously. Louis would grow into a man and have passels of children, and the happenstance that at one time Philippe had technically been next in line would hardly be remembered by anyone. But Louis was only twenty and had yet to marry and father a son, so if…what his mother suggested should come to pass…. It was too unreal. Philippe could not be king. _What do I know of ruling France? I know clothes and hair and dancing. Literally the only useful thing I’ve ever learned is riding, and I’m not sure how that will help me run an entire country. I really should have paid more attention to my lessons and asked Jules to loan me those military books sooner._

“I pray most earnestly your brother will get well, but if he does not, you must be prepared to step into his place.”

“But I’m not! You must know I’m not! If you need help selecting new shoes, call Philippe. But writing laws, fighting wars, negotiating treaties, I don’t know the first thing. I know absolutely nothing about politics.”

Mother gave him a bittersweet smile that soon transformed into a frown. “I know you don’t, and that is entirely my fault. I see my error now, but as you are about to learn, politics is an extremely difficult business, and even when you have the best of intentions, you will make misjudgments.”

“How is this your fault? I’m the one who never showed an interest.”

“You were taught to not be interested. Every hole in your education is my fault. Although I would love to blame your Uncle Gaston, but that would be a bit much.”

Philippe shook his head, hoping, somehow, the movement might offer clarity. True, his tutors had never lavished the same attention upon him as Louis received in his instruction, but he had also never been as willing a student. _And who cares what I know. I was never meant to be king._

“You must hear and understand court gossip,” his mother continued. “You must know what a problem Gaston has been since he was old enough to speak. He threatened the regency his mother held for his older brother, your father. And then he threatened your father directly. And, of course, he threatened your brother and my regency.”

Philippe nodded. He only had vague memories of meeting a jolly man his mother and Cardinal Mazarin clearly disliked. But mother was right—he knew the history of his uncle’s attempts at the throne. “Yes, I know everything. Well, except what Uncle Gaston has to do with us now.”

“I saw what hell your father went through because of an ambitious younger brother.” She sighed and moved her glance back to the window. But she sat up straighter and did not hesitate again when she turned back to him and said, “The very moment you were born and the physician told me I had another son, do you know what I thought? The first idea that went through my mind and has never left me since?”

Philippe did not know and would happily remain in ignorance. He shook his head. His mother spoke.

“I thought to myself, ‘How can I protect Louis from his brother?’ And that is how you have been raised. My fear of Gaston has dictated your life. It’s why I put you in dresses and encouraged you to take more interest in makeup than firearms. If you were so effeminate the country could not take you seriously as a rival to your brother, and you were kept ignorant of the skills you would need to threaten his throne, then he would be safe. You do not know how to be king because I have made certain that you do not.” A tear seemed to be forming in the corner of one of her eyes, but she clenched her jaw and somehow sat more erect than she had been even though her posture had already been flawless, and the tear vanished, willed away by her iron determination never to show weakness.

Philippe knew not what to say. Everything he knew and felt, and believed to be true, about himself, his desires and proclivities, had been purposefully dictated, not with any eye to his own happiness, but for Louis’s sake. _My God!_ _Do I like dresses, or have I been made to believe I like them? Do I prefer flower arranging to target shooting because mother decided it should be so? Do any of the things I love come from my own soul, or have they been stamped artificially upon my heart like wax sealing closed a document never intended to be opened?_

“I need some air,” he said, rising and throwing open the window. It was just as hot outside as it was within, but there was a breeze, and the movement across his burning cheeks offered a modicum of relief.

For several minutes, he and mother remained in silence. He never once thought of speaking, not knowing what he could possibly say. But he also never thought of leaving, knowing they were far from done. Finally, she spoke. “I have done you and France a great disservice. And even if he should live, I have done Louis a disservice, denying him the aid of the man who might have been his most loyal ally. In my raising of you, I have made nothing but mistakes. I see that know. Please, Philippe, my beautiful, darling boy, please come sit with me again and say you forgive me, and allow me to start putting this right.”

Tears formed in his eyes, and unlike his mother, Philippe could not will them away, and they fell across his powdered cheeks. “I don’t know who I am,” he choked out. “I am a person who exists only in relation to another person. If Louis…if something should happen to him, I would lose the only shred of myself. How could that man be king?”

“With the help of the mother who did not always love him well, but who loves him with all of her heart now.”

Philippe turned back to face his mother. Her expression was one he had always dreamed of seeing. It was full of maternal affection, the likes of which she had always withheld from him and bestowed only upon Louis. _Does she love me now? Can this be real? But why should I trust a woman who has made my entire life an elaborate façade and only confesses and repents when she has no other choice?_ “Mother, I don’t know what to do.”

“Then begin by sitting down and talking with me. Ask me anything, and I swear on the memory of your father, I shall answer with complete candor. There are to be no more lies and deceptions between us, Philippe. We will help and love one another as a mother and son should. As we should have been doing for all of these years.”

Without hesitation, he moved to take a seat on the sofa beside her where her needlework had been. “Where do we start? I’ve so much catching up to do.”

She clasped both of his hands in her lap and took a deep breath before looking at him with profound seriousness. “You are so bright, in spite of how I have hampered your education, and I’ve no doubt you will learn everything you must. So let us begin with the topic I fear will be the most painful for you.” She dropped her eyes again and spoke to their fingers. “Philippe, you must marry. You must have children. As you can see now, having heirs is the most important factor for the safety of France and our family. And even if you should not become king, more Bourbons will only be to our benefit.”

Philippe did not know what to say. He had waited for years for his mother to speak to him about marriage—he knew she and Louis had discussed it long ago, and Philippe was surprised the topic had not been broached long ago. But as he had no inclination to marry, no inclination for women whatsoever, in fact, and he now just realized a strong preference the other direction, he had hoped it might never be his turn for this conversation. He thought of Jules and he wanted to scream his refusal. “Mother,” he said quietly, “I do not wish to marry.”

“But you wish to serve your brother and the family,” she said without a hint of question in her voice. “I was thinking perhaps Henriette. The two of you always got along so well.”

“She is a sister. I do not think of in those terms.” _Whereas, Louis most certainly does think of her in those terms. Let him marry her, should he live. And let me be happy_.

“If not Henriette, who? You must marry. Surely you see that now.”

“I can see nothing but unhappiness,” Philippe confessed. “Please, mother, let us speak of anything else.”


	3. Chapter 3

Philippe’s conversation with his mother lasted well over an hour. They tore at all of the most delicate parts of his soul, prying into his past and laying out possibilities for the future. She apologized for the past, particularly the friends she had frightened off for fear they would give him ideas the likes of which she had tried so hard to keep from his mind. “When Comte Baudin’s son wanted you to start training with him for the cavalry and you showed such interest, I’ve never been so worried.”

Philippe had wanted that so very much, and if they truly were telling each other the truth now, he saw this would be the moment to tell her how much he desired to become a Musketeer. And yet, he could not. Joining the Musketeers might be a wish too much, and certainly one he could never indulge if anything happened to Louis. Philippe needed to see his brother before he said anything else to anyone. He must find out how ill Louis was. Perhaps once Louis assured him of his recovery, then Philippe might ask about the Musketeers. Yes. That was the proper way of things. Now Philippe just needed to figure out how to get past the guards.

Eventually, he pressed his wet cheek against his mother’s dry one and said his goodbyes. But once he departed her parlor with his puffy eyes and exhausted heart, he began to plot. He would need some sort of ruse to get the older guard away from his post. Perhaps he could use one he and Louis had executed to perfection on their governess once. It would only require some loose shot and a little powder, as well as an accomplice. The first two would pose no problem, and there was a chambermaid who always smiled so pleasantly at him. He should be able to put his plan in motion in under and hour, giving him plenty of time before supper, assuming the physicians did not come to disturb Louis.

Philippe was ready to do all of this and more if necessary when he saw that young Bernard was now the only guard on duty. Without losing a moment, his ridiculous scheme discarded, Philippe scurried to Louis’s door.

“Is anyone in there?” Philippe whispered.

Bernard shook his head. “Just a lady who sits with him in case the doctors need to be sent for. Right now, it’s Lady Soucy. I can tell her she’d needed somewhere else, though.”

Philippe slapped the man on the shoulder. “Tell her Lady Perreault wants her to come to her rooms. They’re at the other end of the palace, and I don’t believe Lady Perreault is in them at the moment. It will send her on a nice roundabout chase.”

Bernard nodded and smiled, but before he slipped into Louis’s room, Philippe grabbed his shoulder. “I won’t forget this, Bernard. Bless you.”

The guard blushed and went inside. Philippe stood just the other side of the door, twitching with anticipation, but after a few seconds of doing so, he realized how suspicious he would look when Lady Soucy exited. Of course, he might wish to linger near his brother’s room in case there was news, but at this exact moment, he must look an idiot, fidgeting two feet from a closed door staring at nothing. He hustled over to the window on the other side of the room, and while he did not attempt to hide himself, he nonchalantly did his best to blend in with the draperies.

He held his breath when he heard the door open again, followed by the rustle of skirts and click of shoes. When they had passed out into the hallway, Philippe exhaled and glanced over his shoulder. Bernard stood alone at the still open door and nodded. Philippe sighed and hurried to his brother’s room sparing but the briefest moment to smile at Bernard. When the door closed behind him, Philippe paused to breathe and take in his surroundings.

The room was stifling and dark. He could barely see and sweat instantly formed on his brow. _How could such a room make anyone well? There is no air. Louis must surely be suffocating._

“Louis.”

A weak moan and the slightest movement came from the heavily curtained bed. Philippe rushed over to find his brother sweating and pale, his lovely hair a matted, sticky mess. Philippe had never seen him so weak and helpless. He took up Louis’s hand in his own, clammy and shaking. “Brother. I have come to see you. What can I do?”

“Philippe? Is that you?” Louis peeked through the slits of his eyes, the lids never fully raising. “I’d hoped you’d come.”

“I wanted to come. The guards have been keeping me away.”

“Then I must be truly ill.”

“Not so ill that you will not be well soon.” Philippe squeezed Louis’s hand gently, but he’d never been so uncertain about Louis’s recovery as at that moment.

“I can’t breathe, Philippe. The air sticks in my throat.”

“The problem is there is no air in this room fit to breathe. Let me open a window.”

Louis slightly increased the pressure on his hand, and Philippe realized he was attempting to stop him. “The doctors say having the windows open would be bad. I might catch a chill.”

Philippe pressed his free hand to Louis’s burning forehead. He did as best he could to smile and keep his voice light as he said, “I think a little chill would do you good. Besides, it is a warm day. Even with the windows open there will be no chance of you becoming cold.”

This time when Philippe made for the window, Louis released him. He did not pull back the drapes as far as he would like, not wishing to attract the attention of anyone outside, but he got them open enough and the window cracked just so, so that at least a little air entered the chamber.

“That’s better, is it not?”

“I do not know. Come sit with me, brother.”

Philippe hurried back to the spot at Louis’s side where he’d been before. He made to perch on the edge of the bed, even though Louis left him little enough space, but Louis stopped him. “No. Do not sit there. It is wet with my sweat and the medicines I cannot swallow. Come around to the other side.”

Of course, the other side of the enormous bed was far from where Louis actually lay. So Philippe simply crawled onto the bed and lay himself beside his brother like they had done as children when they wanted to talk alone late at night. Louis slowly rolled over with a moan of despair. They lay on their sides, facing each other, and clasped hands.

“I’m so happy to be here with you now,” Philippe said, trying to smile happily, to lift Louis’s spirits.

“I have missed you. What have you been doing? What are mother and the Cardinal doing? Tell me everything. No one tells me anything. My physicians believe that keeping the happenings of my government from me will make me well, but all it does is make me worry.”

_And I know absolutely nothing, useless fop that I am. I didn’t even realized how sick my own brother is. When I asked after him the last two days, and been told he needed rest, I thought no more of it. Stupid, unfeeling bother._

Philippe supposed he did know one thing his mother was doing—preparing him from the throne should Louis die. Obviously, he had no intention of telling Louis that. Although he did wish he could tell Louis that he and mother had reached an understanding Philippe had given up hoping for long ago. But that might lead to questions he wanted to avoid, so he merely said, “Oh, you know, the usual nonsense. I’m a terrible one for giving updates about what’s going on that’s important. I promise to sneak someone in next time who knows what’s going on.”

Louis smiled, even though it looked as though it cost him a great deal of effort to do so. “Then tell me about yourself, what have you been doing while I lay here delirious?”

Philippe’s mind jumped directly to his afternoon with Jules in the garret and he blushed and lower his eyes. Louis hummed happily. “Nothing special,” Philippe said.

“Who is it?”

Philippe shook his head. “No one. But I have a question to ask you.”

“I will only answer if you tell me who makes you blush like that.”

“That’s ridiculous. My question pertains to my future and what I’m going to do with my silly life so that it’s a bit more…useful. Much more significant than anything else we might discuss.”

Louis brushed his thumbs over the backs of Philippe’s fingers. “Anyone you love is very significant to me.”

Philippe freed a hand so that he might take one of Louis’s perfect hands in both and stroke the back of it. “If there was something I wanted to do with my life—a profession, maybe even a calling—would you promise to support me?”

Louis pressed his other hand atop Philippe’s so that he had to stop petting. “I would do anything to make you happy.”

“You’re going to think I’m silly,” Philippe said, dropping his eyes.

“I will not. Tell me this instant.”

Philippe laughed nervously, the idea of him as a Musketeer suddenly the most absurd possibility in all the world. What had he been thinking? Him, a skinny princeling riding around France, getting in duels and shooting enemies and sword fighting rebels. It was ridiculous. _I am ridiculous. I would be the most useless Musketeer in the history of the regiment. Louis would disband them again in a blink of his lovely eyes if only to save himself the embarrassment I would surely cause_.

Louis dropped Philippe’s hands and reached over to brush the hair that had fallen across Philippe’s face off his cheek. “Please tell me. I want to help you.”

His plea was so touching, Philippe was about to tell his brother of his fanciful dream, but a violent shudder suddenly ran the length of Louis’s body. “Louis, what is wrong?” It was now Philippe’s turn to tuck long strands of Louis’s hair behind his ear. “What’s troubling you? Do you need me to send for a doctor?”

Louis shook his head. “It will pass. Horrible chills attack me like angry Huguenots.” He tried to laugh, but it clearly pained him to do so.

“I should never have opened the window,” Philippe said aloud, while cursing himself much more harshly in his mind.

“No, I like the air. And I’ve had the chills even with it closed, so I do not think it makes a difference.”

But Louis’s body spasmed again, and Philippe could not lay there and do nothing. So he bundled his brother into his arms, pressing Louis’s cheek to his chest. “Is this better? I’ll stay here all night if it is.”

Louis hummed once more. “You are very good to me, brother. I already feel decidedly better. Please, go on and ask your question. I will do anything you ask of me at this moment.”

Philippe rubbed his hand up and down Louis’s back, hoping to relieve the chill. “I want nothing in this world but for you to get better.”

“And to spend more time with whoever it is who makes you blush.”

“Not this again.”

“Why don’t you want to tell me who it is? I think this person makes you happy. And I approve of anyone who makes you happy. Truly, anyone.”

Philippe’s hand stuttered as it rubbed Louis’s back _. Wait. Is he saying what I think he is saying? Does he know who my lover is? Or at least that it is a man? I think he’s trying to tell me…_. Philippe choked on his emotions. “You will approve? No matter who?”

“No matter who.”

“I….”

Louis’s arms were wrapped around Philippe, and he held his brother just a little tighter now. “I’ve seen how you look at the young, pretty courtiers, even though none of them is as pretty as you.”

“And you approve? Of the way I look at them?”

“You never look at the ladies like that, even when the prettiest ones throw themselves at you.”

Philippe tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. “Ladies throw themselves at me?”

This time when Louis tried to laugh, he succeeded. It was weak and thin, but unquestionably a laugh. “The fact you do not even notice says a very great deal. So, who is he? Who is my brother in love with? Because it is love. I can tell.”

“I think it must be,” Philippe said, blushing again and grateful Louis couldn’t see it this time. “I’ve never felt this way before. Being with him is so different from anything else.” _And mother wants me to give him up for a woman I can never love the way I should love a wife. I’ll never to it. I will love Jules until the day I die_. _If I have the choice. But I don’t think I do. Unless Louis is willing to fight mother, and how many battles can I ask him to fight with her on my account? I don't think he can do anything to save me._  “But it doesn’t matter," Philippe whispered. "Mother says I must give him up and marry a woman and have babies.”

Louis twisted his face up to Philippe. “Mother wants you to marry and have children? She told you so?”

 _She told you so because you need to produce heirs in case Louis dies. You fool!_ “Um, yes. She thinks there ought to be more Bourbons in the world, although I think you will do more than well enough on that score without my help.”

Louis settled his head back on Philippe’s chest. “If you insist, I shall do my best.” They both laughed, and Philippe was finally comfortable enough he believed he might be able to tell his brother about Jules even though it would do no good, but Louis went on. “I was just surprised mother thinks you should marry. The last time I heard, she and Cardinal Mazarin were scheming about how they might maneuver one of his endless nephews into your bed.”

In spite of Louis’s fevered body atop him in this oppressive room, Philippe was now the one overcome by an icy feeling from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. “What? They wanted to do what?”

“They thought it would be best if you gave into the Italian Vice, as you so clearly wished to do, so who better to help you than one of Mazarin’s Italian nephews?”

“Which one? Do you know?” Philippe shouldn’t have bothered to ask. There was only one of the Cardinal’s numerous Mancini relatives who would suit.

“The Duke of Nevers. Surely you have noticed _him_ throwing himself at you.”

Philippe could not answer as yet another piece of his life crumbled in front of him. _Jules is only with me because he was ordered to be so._ _If he doesn’t truly love me, what is the point of…anything? He lied to me when he said he cared. Like everyone in France he was just doing what mother and Cardinal Mazarin said._

“But that’s of no consequence,” Louis said, completely unaware of Philippe’s life ending beneath him. “I do not care what mother wants for you. I want you to have what you want. Please, tell me who you love.”

The door flew open, admitting the older guard who had stopped Philippe earlier, along with Lady Soucy, three physicians, and mother. Bernard peeked around the corner, but dared not enter. Instinctively, Philippe held Louis closer, even though he knew he had no chance against these foes. He and Louis would be separated as always.

“You were told not to disturb his majesty,” mother said, stepping out in front of the group.

“He’s not disturbing me, mother,” Louis answered. “I’m happy to have him here.”

“Nonsense. You must sleep. Come, Philippe. Let him rest.”  
  
“It’s not safe for him,” one of the physicians hissed.

“He’s opened a window!” another whispered.

“And the way he is cradling his majesty,” the final physician murmured. “I fear for France. I really do.”

Philippe squeezed Louis one last time and placed a quick kiss on the top of his head. “It appears as though I must be leaving now, brother. Please get well. We all need you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical notes**  
>  I don’t claim any great historical accuracy in my fics, and much of this story was inspired by my husband saying, “You’re not going to believe what I read on Wikipedia.” But it appears as though 1658 was a big year for Philippe, who at this time was the Duke of Anjou. (He did not become the Duke of Orleans until his Uncle Gaston died.) He was 18 and had his first homosexual relationship with Philippe Jules Mancini, Duke of Nevers, who was the nephew of Cardinal Mazarin, First Minister of France. When I heard this, I thought it was just wild, and one of those great moments that proves truth is stranger than fiction. When hubby read on and told me that the Cardinal encouraged his 17-year-old nephew to bed Philippe, I knew I had to include it in my fic. Additionally, Louis did become dangerously ill in the summer of 1658, prompting Queen Anne and Philippe to become close for the first time as she prepared him to possibly take the throne. And although neither fact is mentioned in this fic, 1658 is also the year Philippe bought St. Cloud and met the Chevalier de Lorraine. 
> 
> The Musketeers bits in here are inspired by history as well. The Duke of Nevers was the Captain of the recently re-formed regiment, in spite of his youth, thanks to his uncle. But the Musketeers were in good hands, since the Cardinal’s favorite soldier-spy, Charles d’Artagnan, was really running the show. My d’Artagnan is my own blend of history and BBC _Musketeers_ , and I encourage everyone to picture him as Luke Pasqualino all grown up.
> 
> Speaking of the BBC _Musketeers_ , the Queen Anne I’ve written here owes more to the one from _Versailles_ , but hints of Ali Dowling have sneaked in. 
> 
> As far as what’s canon compliant with _Versailles_ and BBC _Musketeers_ , I’ve written nothing that I think is contradicted by _Versailles_. And this is the first of what may be many fics I write that, while primarily _Versailles_ , will include _Musketeers_. In my mind, the Musketeers I include in any _Versailles_ fics will be a blend of BBC, Dumas, and history. Depending on what characters and stories I introduce, I will note what’s canon compliant with BBC _Musketeers_ and what is not. But I will make this blanket statement now for all fics I write in the _Versailles_ universe—Louis XIV’s father is Louis XIII. Period.


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